


you don't understand, you should never know (how easy you are to need)

by lady_romanov



Series: rare and sweet as cherry wine [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fluff and Smut, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Knotting, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Self-Esteem Issues, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Tender Sex, Wall Sex, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:33:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24786238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_romanov/pseuds/lady_romanov
Summary: They had made it back to town in good time and exchanged the lamia’s head - which was fucking gross and not pleasant on his sensitive, post-heat nose, though Geralt had mercifully packed it with calendula and sweet marjoram to mask some of the rotting stink, and Jaskier still isn’t sure if that had been for Geralt’s sake or his - for their promised coin, which had been generous enough to secure them two rooms at the nearest inn for the next few days while they rested up before continuing on their journey. Geralt had immediately retreated to his room and not come out for several days, while Jaskier himself had dealt with his post-heat properly by bathing, sleeping, and eating his weight in sweetbread bought at a local bakery with the coin he earned from playing at the local pub; fortunately, everyone still seemed to adore a good few renditions of “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher.”As promised, Jaskier had not written a song about their rendezvous in the woods, no matter how tempting the idea was.Or: Three months after sharing Jaskier's heat unexpectedly, they still haven't talked about what it means for their relationship, and Jaskier is coming up on another heat.Sequel to (you are) a call to motion
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: rare and sweet as cherry wine [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645501
Comments: 37
Kudos: 776





	you don't understand, you should never know (how easy you are to need)

**Author's Note:**

> Coming in with part two exactly four months late. Sorry for the wait, you guys have honestly blown me away with your feedback from part one, and you are all so sweet and supportive, and I've been trying to finish this for ages, but between Real Life being a bitch and writer's block, it's been hard. So, here I am, hoping to make up for it with this unrepentant schmoop. Enjoy? Let me know if there are any typos or anything. Title from Hozier's "It Will Come Back," aka The Geralt Song.

It’s been three months, and they haven’t talked about it.

At first Jaskier had assumed it was because they had had business to take care of; after his heat had subsided and rational thought had returned to the both of them, they had cleaned up, salvaged what they could of their clothes and bedrolls (which, after almost two full days of nearly constant fucking, had not been very much, and Jaskier had internally cringed at the state of his very nice clothes and, perhaps more importantly,  _ Geralt’s,  _ because Geralt had so few possessions as it was and rarely had the coin necessary to replace it) and made their way deeper into the woods, where Geralt had dispatched of the child-snatching monster which had been, to Jaskier’s disappointment, not new in the slightest but merely a simple lamia, though he was at least grateful that it was easily taken care of; Geralt didn’t even get a scratch on him, which was probably good because Jaskier’s post-heat brain would not have been able to handle that very well, like,  _ at all.  _

The journey back to town had taken three days and had been almost excruciatingly awkward, because Jaskier had wanted to talk about it, but Geralt was as unhelpful in that sphere as usual, barely even acknowledging what happened beyond a few queries as to how Jaskier was adjusting post-heat wise (the answer to which was: unreasonably good, seriously, his body felt like it was  _ glowing,  _ which would normally have been a cause for celebration or at least relaxation but since this was Geralt and they were on a monster hunt… not so much) and Jaskier was fairly sure he only asked because his Alpha instincts were still pestering him. 

They had made it back to town in good time and exchanged the lamia’s head - which was fucking  _ gross  _ and not pleasant on his sensitive, post-heat nose, though Geralt had mercifully packed it with calendula and sweet marjoram to mask some of the rotting stink, and Jaskier still isn’t sure if that had been for Geralt’s sake or his - for their promised coin, which had been generous enough to secure them two rooms at the nearest inn for the next few days while they rested up before continuing on their journey. Geralt had immediately retreated to his room and not come out for several days, while Jaskier himself had dealt with his post-heat properly by bathing, sleeping, and eating his weight in sweetbread bought at a local bakery with the coin he earned from playing at the local pub; fortunately, everyone still seemed to adore a good few renditions of “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher.”

As promised, Jaskier had not written a song about their rendezvous in the woods, no matter how tempting the idea was. 

He had hoped when Geralt returned to the outside world that they could sit and have a conversation about what had happened, but instead the Witcher had simply appeared in his room on the morning of their third day back in town and grunted at him that it was time to be leaving, scrubbed clean of their combined pheromones, and that was about the extent of their talking before they headed out. They’d traveled west, had taken a few more contracts - for a werewolf, a group of drowners, and a griffin nest, respectively - and enjoyed their turn of good luck, and they  _ hadn’t fucking talked about it.  _

And now it’s been three months and Jaskier can feel his next heat approaching like an itch at the back of his throat, and he honestly has no idea whatsoever what he’s supposed to do next.

Because, see, Jaskier had said  _ I intend to keep you to myself,  _ and Geralt had said  _ I suppose I can live with that _ ; Geralt had been there when he needed him, had fucked him so sweet and hot and fucking  _ perfect _ that Jaskier still has dreams about, still thinks about it when he takes himself in hand at night; he had spent probably the best heat of Jaskier’s entire  _ life  _ giving him his knot and kissing his neck and showering him with possessive Alpha pheromones, and then they’d cleaned up and Geralt hadn’t so much as offered to scent him since then. 

Jaskier has met Alphas who’ve said things in the throes of heatsex that they didn’t mean, but Jaskier had thought, had  _ hoped _ , that Geralt was different. He’s never been wrong about Geralt before, not when it counts, but now… 

He's not sure where their relationship stands, is the point. But he’s going to have to figure it out soon, because the prospect of dithering on about it and then spending his heat alone because he’s an idiot who can’t talk about his feelings like  _ someone  _ he knows is unappealing at best. 

Either Geralt wants him, and they can spend his heat together - or he doesn’t, in which case….

Well. 

He hopes he won’t have to figure it out. 

xx

The bard isn’t nearly as subtle as he thinks he is.

They’ve been in Mahakam for three days now, chasing down rumors of a cockatrice pestering the outskirts of Mount Carbon, and Geralt can  _ smell  _ the indecision coming off of Jaskier in waves - and beneath it, the sweet-musk scent of pre-heat. Geralt had wanted to curse when he realized that it had indeed been three months since that day ( _ days _ ) in the woods and that the Omega was due for his heat in less than a week. 

Geralt has been dreading this. 

He’s known this was coming from the moment the haze of his last heat faded and Jaskier had looked up at him lucid eyes and bit his lip hesitantly, his scent drifting from sweet and pleased to heavy and uncertain; had known by the way the bard had collected their belongings in uncharacteristic silence, from the way he kept shooting guilty looks back towards where Geralt was pulling on his admittedly filthy and somewhat tattered clothes, had known when Jaskier had not once come to his room at the inn in town. 

Geralt has been told plenty enough times in his life that he’s no proper Alpha. He doesn’t need to hear it from Jaskier, too. 

He had thought, briefly, that this time was different - after all, Jaskier has never once treated him differently because he’s a Witcher, has never seemed to share the same prejudice against mutants that everyone else does. He had hoped that this might mean a future for the two of them that involved more shared heats, more kissing, more time together; he had hoped it meant  _ more.  _ After a very untraditional heat partnership that skipped straight passed any sort of courting or offerings on his behalf, as is traditional of an Alpha to show they can provide for an Omega, Geralt had left it up to Jaskier to decide what pace he wanted to set. He hadn’t wanted to frighten off the bard (not that he thinks Jaskier can truly be  _ frightened,  _ but he felt it was a little too presumptuous even for him) and so he had waited for Jaskier to make a move. 

But it became clear all too soon that Jaskier didn’t intend to make a move; the bard didn’t say two words about his heat after they left the woods. He hadn’t so much as hinted that he might want a relationship beyond what it was they had had before, and so Geralt had quickly come to the realization that Jaskier did not, in fact, want anything to change at all. 

Jaskier had accepted his advances in a moment of desperation brought on by an unexpectedly early heat, and now he regrets it. He had taken Geralt because he had no other option other than to ride out a miserable heat alone, and Geralt had taken advantage of him. Just thinking of the way he’d practically pounced on the bard set his teeth on edge, fury at his lack of willpower eating at his gut, no matter that Jaskier had given his full consent. 

No wonder the bard doesn’t want to talk about it. He probably wants to pretend it never happened, and while something in Geralt’s chest stings hot and sharp at the thought, if that’s how Jaskier wants to play it, then Geralt owes him enough to let any foolish hope he had go.

But now, now the bard is coming up on his heat once more, and Geralt is going to have to hear him say aloud the words he’s been dreading:

_ “I need to find a proper Alpha to spend my heat with.” _

Oh, Jaskier isn’t cruel enough to say it exactly like that, but it’s what he’ll mean. Likely Jaskier will play it off as a joke, will make some light and flippant remark about going to visit an old friend as he had in the past despite knowing damn well that Geralt could smell his heat coming probably before the Omega knew it himself, but Geralt will hear what he’s really saying:  _ I need to find an Alpha that isn’t you. _

Not a Witcher with nothing to offer. Not an infertile Alpha who spends his days hunting monsters and talks to his horse and wouldn’t know how to properly court an Omega if his life depended on it - bonding wasn’t exactly something Vesemir prepared them for, up at Kaer Morhen; everyone knows Witchers lead solitary lives, regardless of their designation. Oh, they might seek out companionship for a heat or a rut, but Witchers are not made so that they can build a nest and play house. The Path is meant to be walked alone.

No one dreams of having a  _ mutant  _ for a mate. 

So Jaskier will leave and Geralt will let him go, because Jaskier, for all that he can occasionally ( _ often _ ) be a nuisance and has the self-preservation instincts of a flea, deserves an Alpha who will take care of him properly, who will give him everything he could ever need and more. It might not be now, or even soon, but one day Jaskier will meet a proper Alpha and settle down, just like every Omega who came before him, and then -

And then Geralt will be alone again. 

xx 

Jaskier spends a great deal of time over the next few days cursing himself and the world at large for his inability to start a proper conversation. Every time an opportunity comes for him to open up a dialogue about his upcoming heat, he finds his mouth won’t let him shape the words, instead making some flippant remark about how uncomfortable the beds are at this inn they’re staying at or how stale the bread is that they were served for dinner last night; he might have improved Geralt’s reputation considerably over the years with his ballads, but there are still many places across the continent where Geralt receives cold welcome even as the locals beg him to rid them of the monsters that lurk among them. Geralt himself is no help, as the Witcher has been stoically silent even by Geralt-standards, and Jaskier can’t help the worry nagging at the back of his mind that it’s because he can sense what Jaskier wants to talk about - Geralt’s always had a knack for knowing what Jaskier is thinking, and he’s fairly certain it’s only partially because of his mutant abilities; Geralt cares what people think far more than he’ll ever say.

But the morning finally comes when he wakes up with a familiar ache in his gut and slick between his thighs, warning him that his heat is just around the corner, and he knows he can no longer put off the conversation. 

He takes care to clean himself up that morning, paying for a hot bath to soothe his pre-heat sensitive body; he uses only the unscented soap he carries when he’s with Geralt, knowing that the perfumed ones he normally prefers bother the Witcher’s enhanced sense of smell, and is careful to scrub away as much of his sweet-smelling heat pheromones as he can - he doesn’t want Geralt’s mind to be clouded when they have this conversation, doesn’t want his pheromones to sway the Alpha unless he wants it. He gets himself off in the bath as well, which helps settle some of his pre-heat tension and loosen the knot in his gut, and if he imagines that it’s Geralt’s hand wrapped around his aching cock, well, at least there’s no sorceress here to read his mind. 

Afterwards, he dresses himself in his softest clothes and arranges his hair carefully, collects his courage, and goes to knock on Geralt’s door. The grunt of, “Come in,” he receives isn’t the most welcoming sound he could have hoped for, but Jaskier ignores the twinge of anxiety in his chest and pushes open the door. 

He finds Geralt lounging on his bed as if it were made from goose down and not a hard lump of hay - although he supposes that Geralt’s probably slept in a lot more uncomfortable places - but the comfortable repose of his body is somewhat ruined by the hard, mullish expression on his face. Hard and mullish by Geralt’s standards, even.

_ Off to a great start,  _ he thinks, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. The room smells like Geralt and the oil he uses to clean his swords. Jaskier thinks his knees might be a little weak. 

“So, we need to talk,” he says, and immediately winces in his head at the phrase. “I mean,” he clarifies quickly, “I’d like to talk about something.”

Geralt looks at him, face more closed off and emotionless than Jaskier has seen in a very long time. “Your heat,” he says flatly.

Jaskier’s stomach flips. “Yes,” he starts, stops. He licks his suddenly dry mouth. In the small room, he can smell how potent Geralt’s Alpha pheromones are; Geralt has always smelled good, but now Jaskier is in pre-heat, and the scent of  _ Alpha  _ \- hot, fierce, like crackling firewood or lightning - combined with Geralt’s usual smell of leather and metal and sweat is suddenly so appealing that he wants to roll around in it, bathe in it, until it’s the only thing he knows. “Yes,” he tries again, “I’d like to talk about it, if you’re amenable. I’m rather, ah, short on time, as it were.” Much shorter than he’d realized, even, if Geralt’s scent is making him this heat-stupid already. 

Abruptly, Geralt stands, the movement so sudden and smooth that Jaskier starts a little where he’s leaning his weight against the door. Geralt turns his back to Jaskier and crosses the room, starts fiddling with the pouch where he keeps his Witcher potions, his shoulders tense. The knot in Jaskier’s gut tightens further; he’s starting to think he misread their situation after all. 

Without looking back at him, Geralt bites out, “There’s no need to discuss anything, bard.” His voice is cold.

Jaskier swallows. “There isn’t?”

“No,” the Witcher says sharply. 

Jaskier feels breathless, like he’s taken a fist to the gut and had the wind knocked out of him. “Geralt -” he tries, voice small and uncertain.

Geralt shakes his head sharply, still not turning around, and Jaskier’s heart squeezes painfully at the motion.  _ I thought,  _ he thinks, but Geralt’s voice cuts off the train of thought: “You can go, bard.”

“Geralt,” he says again, helplessly, aching. 

“Go,” Geralt repeats, toneless. “No need to spare my feelings.”

Jaskier leans against the door, winded, his world spiralling down around him, wondering distantly what the fuck he’s supposed to do  _ now.  _ He’s put it off too long after all, he can feel his heat pulsing in his blood, aching need buzzing in the pit of his stomach, between his legs, and there’s absolutely no way he can find another Alpha in the time between now and when his heat spikes and rational thought abandons him; it’s the part he hates most about heat, even more than the desperate want burning in his blood - the inability to form coherent thought and keep track of the world beyond his own body is frustrating in more ways than one. But even this worry is a distant afterthought - his body aches with want, but it is his heart that truly  _ hurts.  _ How could he have been so fucking stupid? Geralt doesn’t want anything to do with him, clearly doesn’t want to have to deal with a needy, emotional Omega following him around, and if Jaskier had thought that the Witcher had harbored any soft feelings for him beneath his gruff exterior, well, now he has pretty fucking definitive proof to the contrary, doesn’t he.

_ Go. No need to spare my -  _

And then Geralt’s words actually catch up to him.

_ Spare his  _ feelings _? _

Shakily, he straightens up against the door, shaking his head to try and make sense of it all. “‘Spare your feelings?’” he rasps, lost. “Geralt, wh - what does that even mean?”

If possible, Geralt’s shoulders get even more tense, and some part of Jaskier notes distantly that he’s going to need quite the massage if he’s planning on standing like that for much longer. Geralt says, “It means nothing, bard. You need to go and find a proper Alpha to spend your heat with; you don’t have to spare my feelings by making up some kind of excuse. I understand. You can go, I swear to you that I won’t hold it against you.”

Jaskier’s head spins, unable to make sense of anything the Witcher is saying. “‘Proper Alpha,’” he echoes blankly. “Geralt, what the fuck are you _talking about_? I came to ask you if you wanted to spend my heat with me, not, not - what the fuck even _is_ a proper Alpha, _you’re_ a proper Alpha, in case you haven’t noticed!” His voice has gone shrill, and he winces, trying to stem the hysteria building his chest. He runs his fingers through his hair anxiously, trying to order his thoughts into some kind of order, trying to make Geralt’s words make sense. “I am _very_ confused. If you don’t want me then for sweet Melitele’s sake, just _tell me,_ I can’t… I can’t just sit around, hoping one day you’ll notice me, that you’ll want me back. I have to know, Geralt, because in case you haven’t noticed, my heart is kind of on the line here, and to be quite honest, I’m not actually keen on tying my happiness to someone who doesn’t want me.” 

Geralt keeps his back to him during his entire, less-than-planned speech, but once the air between them falls silent and still once more, he finally does turn around, looking him in the eyes for the first time since he started this conversation. Jaskier’s breath hitches at the storm of emotions in his amber eyes, unable to resist the urge to scent the air, his senses enhanced by his heat. Beneath the general scent of  _ male  _ and  _ Alpha  _ and the unpleasant odors that every inn carries _ ,  _ he’s almost certain he can smell -

Hope. Like sweetgrass and warm bread. 

Geralt takes one step towards him, his hand twitching like he wants to reach out, and Jaskier’s chest feels painfully, unbearably tight. 

“You want me,” he says quietly, his voice a soft rumble, like thunder on the horizon. 

He doesn't phrase it like a question, but the bard can hear the underlying doubt anyways. Jaskier’s eyes burn, his heart aching even more than it had a few minutes ago. Pushing off of the door, he closes the space between them in five steps, coming to stop barely a few inches away from the Witcher. With a steadiness he didn’t know he possessed, he reaches up with one hand and cups Geralt’s face, stroking his fine cheekbone with his thumb, and Geralt makes a soft noise that’s neither pain nor pleasure but some mix of both and leans into the touch. 

“Geralt,” he whispers, and the whole world feels like it’s holding its breath, teetering on the edge of something great and yawning and vital. “Geralt, my White Wolf, my Alpha. Of course I want you - I always have, from the moment I met you.” Forget his songs, his epics, his poems and hymns - if he’s to be remembered for any words, he wants it to be these; the inexorable truth rising up from the depths of his soul. “I love you.”

Geralt makes that sound again, like it’s been punched out of him, and kisses him. 

And Jaskier, certain that this is where his Destiny has been leading him all along, holds his face in his hands and kisses him back.

~

The bard’s words pound in his head as Geralt kisses him roughly and more desperately than he’s ever kissed anyone in his life. Jaskier’s mouth is a benediction against his, and his hands are warm and achingly gentle where they’re grasping his face like Geralt is something precious, and Geralt thinks that he’s never been so happy to be wrong about anything in his entire, miserable life. Geralt moans into the Omega’s mouth as he tilts his head so he can slant their mouths together even more, the kiss changing from sweet and warm to hot and needy in an instant, Jaskier’s tongue stroking his teasingly, the bard sliding one leg between Geralt’s and grinding his hard cock into the Witcher’s thigh. 

Geralt thinks he’d be happy just to spend a small eternity doing nothing but this, kissing Jaskier and knotting his fingers in the bard’s soft, dark hair and rutting against Jaskier’s thigh, but then Jaskier’s hands fall from his face to his shoulders and squeeze with surprising strength, his scent of happiness and lust flooding sharply with  _ need,  _ and Geralt suddenly remembers the reason they began this conversation. He pulls his mouth away from Jaskier’s, ignoring the unhappy whine the Omega lets out in response, before burying his face in the bard’s neck and licking a hot strip up the line of his throat, tasting his pheromones, tasting his heat, his  _ needneedneed,  _ the salt of his skin and the sweetness that is so distinctly  _ Omega.  _ He lets out a rumbling noise of approval, grazing his teeth against Jaskier’s unmarked skin, easily taking the bard’s weight when his knees give out.

“Geralt,” he gasps, getting a hand up in the Alpha’s hair and tugging hard enough to wrench another rumbling growl from him, and the sound Jaskier makes when Geralt slides his hands down and squeezes his arse is obscenely filthy and fucking beautiful. He lifts the bard easily, Jaskier purring happily as he licks and bites at Geralt’s neck, and when Geralt presses him up against the wall the bard turns his head to catch his mouth in a searing hot kiss, writhing against him happily. Geralt rocks his hips where he’s settled between Jaskier’s legs, eager to drag out every filthy, perfect sound from him that he can, Jaskier moaning and purring and shuddering where their cocks rub together through two layers of clothes. 

Two layers are far too many, Geralt decides, moving his hands between them to tug at the laces of Jaskier’s trousers, and Jaskier makes a wordless noise of agreement and starts returning the favor, making Geralt grunt when Jaskier’s hands brush against the hard length of his cock where it strains against the leather ties. It seems to take both forever and no time at all before he’s managed to get both of their pants open and shoved out of the way, reluctantly releasing Jaskier for only as long as it takes for the Omega to hastily shove his trousers down his trembling legs and kick them off, one leg catching on his boot, but Geralt hardly notices as rips off his shirt, suddenly overheated, before he roughly fists his cock, pumping it once, twice before seizing the bard and lifting him off of his feet again. Jaskier leans against the wall, panting, his blue eyes almost completely black with want, and squeezes his legs where they’re wrapped tightly around Geralt’s waist, his trousers still dangling from one leg and brushing against Geralt’s bare arse.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says again, this time softer, running his hands up and down Geralt’s arms, and Geralt takes a minute to regret not taking the time to strip Jaskier from his doublet, but then Jaskier grinds down on his cock and he stops thinking altogether. Leaning in, he noses against Jaskier’s chin and the bard tips his head back immediately, and something roars hot and possessive in his chest at such beautiful submission. “ _ Geralt,”  _ Jaskier moans, pleading, and Geralt hums in reply, hitching Jaskier a little higher so he can slide one hand around to grope the Omega’s arse before parting his cheeks, and the noise Jaskier makes when he circles one finger around his slick hole makes Geralt’s cock throb. He’s drenched already, dripping and eager for it just from his heat, just from the slide of their bodies together, and Geralt rumbles a sound of pleasure into the bard’s throat as he slides one finger into the wet, hot clutch of Jaskier’s body.

“Ohgodsohgodsohgods _ please, _ ” Jaskier babbles senselessly, writhing in his arms as he curls one finger and then two inside of him, rocking them in and out and angling them until he finds the right angle to hit that bundle of nerves with each thrust. “ _ Alpha, _ ” Jaskier sobs out, fucking himself on Geralt’s fingers, his nails digging into the back of Geralt’s neck as he adds a third finger, fucking them in and out steadily until Jaskier’s reduced to wordless, breathless cries. He’s beautiful like this, utterly wrecked, sweat beading on his forehead and a rosy flush enveloping his cheeks, extending down his throat, one of his hands knotted in Geralt’s hair and the other clinging to his shoulder for dear life as he chases his pleasure. 

Geralt can’t resist the urge to kiss him again, moaning shamelessly into Jaskier’s mouth and kissing the whimpers from the Omega’s lips as he gets closer and closer. “Jaskier,” he rasps into the kiss, “little lark. My Omega.”

“Yours,” Jaskier gasps out, and Geralt  _ snarls,  _ curling his fingers hard and sudden inside Jaskier; Jaskier comes with a shout, come splashing against Geralt’s bare stomach and dripping down his body, the room flooding with the scent of Jaskier’s pleasure as he clenches and pulses in waves around Geralt’s fingers, soaking his hand with slick as he shakes apart, and Geralt doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything so beautiful. “Fuck,” Jaskier groans as he comes down, still shuddering, and then whines in loss when Geralt removes his fingers. When his fingers are immediately replaced with the blunt head of Geralt’s cock teasing against his rim, he stops whining instantly and instead makes a happy, eager sound, pressing messy, sloppy kisses across Geralt’s face and curling his hand possessively around the back of the Witcher’s neck. “Geralt,” he says, half a purr and half a plea.

“Yes,” Geralt says nonsensically, and pushes inside of him in one smooth thrust. Jaskier shouts again, the hand on the back of Geralt’s neck tightening almost to the point of pain, and Geralt growls out a noise of encouragement and starts fucking him in earnest. He sets a brisk, hard pace, and once Jaskier recovers he starts rolling his hips to meet each thrust of Geralt’s hips, moaning prettier than any whore as he rides Geralt’s cock. It’s sloppy, and messy, and Jaskier’s cock is hard again against Geralt’s stomach, sliding slickly through the mess of his own come where it hasn’t yet dried on Geralt’s skin, and the wall rattles with every powerful roll of Geralt’s hips.

“Alpha, Alpha, Alpha,” Jaskier chants, like a prayer or, more likely, a song, throwing his head back and baring his throat in a wordless invitation, and Geralt is only too happy to lean in and sink his teeth into the tender skin of Jaskier’s throat. Warm blood fills his mouth as he feels the bond snap into place between them, and then Geralt is coming in a white hot wave of pleasure, only tangentially aware of Jaskier following half a heartbeat after him. Rocking his hips gently, he works his rapidly swelling knot past the tight ring of muscle, Jaskier’s body taking him so easily, so beautifully, and when he finally locks into place they’re both left trembling, panting, Geralt’s teeth still buried in Jaskier’s neck and Jaskier’s nails pressing hot-sharp points of pain where they’ve dug into the skin at the base of Geralt’s scalp, like Jaskier is trying to mark him, too. 

When he finally manages to pull his teeth out of Jaskier’s neck, the Omega is quick to turn his head and catch his mouth in a sweet, lazy kiss, the taste of blood somehow not repulsive in the slightest as it coats their tongues. They spend the quarter hour it takes for Geralt’s knot to go down trading soft, gentle kisses, stroking each other’s face, a purr rumbling deep in Jaskier’s throat as Geralt presses chaste kisses to every inch of his face. When he does pull out, he doesn’t let Jaskier get far, setting him down gently on unsteady legs and pulling their bodies flush back together, Jaskier sighing into his mouth and twining his hands into Geralt’s hair, his cock bobbing between their stomachs, his heat making it impossible for Jaskier to find respite for long. 

Somehow they find themselves stumbling together towards the bed, a slow dance across the small space as Geralt helps Jaskier out of his remaining clothing, his doublet and chemise tossed aside carelessly in favor of pressing every bare inch of their bodies together as Geralt gently tips Jaskier backwards onto the soft, hay-stuffed bed before covering his body with his own. They lay like that for several long, lovely minutes, reveling in the press of their nude bodies, in the easy slide of their cocks rubbing together, until Jaskier starts huffing impatiently. “Eager,” he rumbles into Jaskier’s swollen mouth, and Jaskier bites his lower lip in retaliation, arching his back to rub against Geralt more firmly as if to say,  _ yes, very eager, and all for you.  _ Geralt groans helplessly, running his hand between them through the mess Jaskier’s made of his stomach, gathering the Omega’s come in his hand and wraps his slicked hand around the both of them, stroking.

Jaskier bucks into his grasp. “Fuck,” he says, red-bitten lips parting, eyes huge and dark in his face. “Fuck,  _ Geralt, _ ” and Geralt hums and kisses those swollen lips again, licking into Jaskier’s sweet mouth, his hand working fast and relentless between them. 

“Little lark,” he murmurs, squeezing his hand almost to the point of pain, and he’s rewarded when Jaskier throws his head back and  _ howls  _ as he comes, and there’s so much come between the tight press of their bodies that Geralt can barely keep a grip on their cocks, and he only has to work his hand once, twice more before he’s coming with a low growl, grinding the heel of his palm against his knot, vision wavering as he shudders through the pleasure of his release. He has enough mind to roll off of Jaskier before he collapses, not wanting to crush the Omega with his body weight, but Jaskier only follows him, rolling over onto his front and kneeling up before throwing one leg over Geralt’s waist and settling into his lap. He trails one hand through the mess on Geralt’s belly, and reaches behind himself to wrap the other around Geralt’s cock, stroking it almost idly as he rubs his come-slick hole against the heated skin of Geralt’s stomach.

“You’re still hard,” Jaskier notes, eyes glinting.

“Witcher,” Geralt supplies, groaning when Jaskier drags his thumb across the head of his cock. Jaskier is hard again, too, his gorgeous cock flushed red and beading with pre-come. It’s so pretty and perfect an image that Geralt can’t help but reach out to wrap his hand around it, and Jaskier lets out a long, slow sigh of pleasure as Geralt touches him. 

“How many times can you go?” Jaskier asks, his voice a tad more breathless, his gaze heavy and slightly distant, and Geralt doesn’t need his nose to tell him that Jaskier’s heat is spiking once more.

“Hm,” Geralt says, “As many times as you need me too,” he says, and thinks,  _ and probably more,  _ because he never has quite managed to find a limit for himself once he really gets going.

Jaskier’s eyes glitter, and he lets go of Geralt’s cock so he can lever himself down and kiss Geralt again, a filthy, searing kiss full of promise, and when he purrs, “We’ll see about  _ that _ ,” into Geralt’s mouth, the Witcher shudders with anticipation.

~

By late morning they do have to take a break when even Geralt finds himself in need of a bit of rest before he can go again. Instead, he calls them a bath and pulls Jaskier onto his lap in the hot water, washing him tenderly as he sucks at the bond bites littering the bard’s throat, and Jaskier shivers and sighs in his arms. He spends a small eternity running his soapy hands over every inch of Jaskier’s skin, committing every part of this to memory so that in a hundred years from now, he will still remember what Jaskier’s body felt like against his - will remember the cluster of freckles on the bard’s left collarbone, and the old scar on his right hip from a childhood scuffle, and the way his dark hair curls a bit where it sticks to his neck from the humid steam of the bath.

He thinks he can probably stay here forever, just like this, with the bard in his lap and trading sweet kisses and sweeter touches, but eventually Jaskier’s heat spikes once more as the Omega starts to whine, grinding down against Geralt’s cock.

“Geralt,” Jaskier mumbles against his lips, his hands clutching Geralt’s shoulders as he rocks his hips, pressing his cock against Geralt’s slick stomach and rubbing his aching hole along the Alpha’s hard length. “ _ Please, _ ” he moans, and Geralt is fairly certain he doesn’t even know what he’s begging for at this point, but the plea makes Geralt’s Alpha instincts go  _ wild,  _ something thundering in his chest as he gathers the Omega in his arms and lifts them both out of the bath, carrying him over to the soiled bed and dropping him unceremoniously, not caring even slightly about soaking the bed with bath water. “ _ Geralt, _ ” Jaskier says again, this time admonishing, but Geralt doesn’t reply as he kneels in front of the bed between Jaskier’s outstretched legs.

“Oh _ , _ ” Jaskier sighs as Geralt sets his mouth on the soft skin of the man’s inner thigh, lavishing kisses and sucking bruising, claiming marks against the pale flesh as he trails his way upwards, nuzzling at the downy hair between the bard’s legs and using his free hand to stroke his cock, their skin still wet from the bath and gliding easily together. “ _ Oh _ ,” Jaskier says again, moaning and arching his back when Geralt covers the bard’s slick hole with his tongue.

He takes his time. He spends ages curling his tongue in and out of Jaskier, sucking at the tender skin around his hole and moaning as the entire world narrows down to the taste of his sweet Omega slick that fills his mouth and drips down his chin like he’s sunk his teeth into an overripe peach. He eats Jaskier out until he’s nearly sobbing and he’s come twice in Geralt’s hand, come covering his stomach and dripping onto the sheets and rendering their bath pointless. He eats him out until Jaskier has to push him away, shuddering and oversensitive.

“Come here,” Jaskier says, voice hoarse from shouting. “Just - come here.”

Geralt would go anywhere for the bard right now, so he lets Jaskier manhandle him up onto the bed, flipping over and lying on his back amidst the ruined sheets, and feels a little breathless when he realizes that his back will be covered in Jaskier’s come from laying like this; he shivers at the idea of carrying the bard’s scent on him, so open and obvious to anyone with a nose that the two of them are intimate.

Jaskier slings his leg over Geralt, straddling his thighs and hovering above him, his hands braced on Geralt’s chest; Geralt was wrong before -  _ this  _ is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, the sight of Jaskier above him looking utterly  _ wrecked,  _ his hair mussed and his neck bruised and bitten and come dried on his stomach, finger-shaped red marks from Geralt’s hands covering his hips and his cock still somehow hard and leaking, curving up against his belly. When he lowers himself down onto Geralt’s cock, he sighs like it’s the first time, and Geralt settles his hands on the Omega’s hips and lets him take charge, moaning as Jaskier clenches around him. 

Jaskier rides him slow and achingly sweet, his face open and filled with such wonder that it makes Geralt ache deep down in his bones, and when he comes again, everything goes bright and golden with pleasure. 

~

It takes three days for his heat to break, and by the end of it, Jaskier is certain that neither of them have any come left in their bodies. Through it all, Geralt is there, touching him and claiming him and biting him and knotting him as many times as Jaskier pleads for him, and when it’s over, they curl up together like kittens in the messy, disgusting bedding - Jaskier has the distinct feeling that they’ll be paying extra for damages, but he finds that he doesn’t care in the  _ least  _ \- and doze off and on as the rising sun warms their sated, exhausted bodies.

At some point, Geralt noses Jaskier’s hair and says, quiet in the still morning air, “You do know that I love you, too?”

Jaskier smiles against Geralt’s neck. “Yes,” he says, dropping a kiss against his Alpha’s skin, “I do.”

**  
  
  
**

**Author's Note:**

> I have a tentative third part in mind for this series, but I honestly have no idea if or when it will be written. In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed this extremely self-indulgent fic, and are all staying safe from the pandemic. 
> 
> Tumblr: oncomingstorms


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